


The Bruised

by fromward (from)



Category: Murder by Numbers (2002)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:59:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/from/pseuds/fromward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard has reasons for playing on a team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bruised

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2005.

He's sore and cold and pretty fucking glad that this is his last season playing lacrosse for Jefferson. Another long month to go of this shit – two if they make the playoffs, but they won’t – and he’s done.

PE is optional for seniors if they play competitive sport, and Richard has only been playing on the team so they won’t make him take gym and shower in the cesspits at school.

He's not much of an athlete anyway. He smokes too much and doesn't show up to practice that often. Just enough so that he doesn't get kicked off the team.

All the coaches hate him. They don't know whether it bothers him more to be told that he only made varsity because he's a stick wizard or to not be acknowledged at all for his skills. Being pussies, their solution is to do both - the first when the team loses and the second when the team wins.

The team won last week and this morning, which is why he hasn't heard a word directed at him from any of them.

Tierney, the assistant coach who drove them back from the games in his own van, just went off into the admin building and Richard is left standing around in front of the school with Wexler, Rodriguez, Mann, Smith and three guys who must be seconds.

No one is getting dismissed until the big bus is back and everyone else is here. It's lame, but as long as Tierney's not around, he can smoke. There's hardly anyone on campus.

It takes a minute for him to find a sweet spot down on the ground. He slaps his equipment bag a couple of times before laying his head on it.

The sky is crisp clear, loud, and blue with too much feeling.

‘You can't smoke here,’ someone says.

‘Shut up,’ Wexler says for him, probably still feeling guilty for that hospital pass he threw.

It hurt when the three defenders slammed into him, but at least he managed to feed the ball to Smith and helped them score.

He opens one eye, hearing pulled zippers, and sees the bag of balls in Smith's hands. Tierney's a moron for leaving it here; no one ever cares about their parents getting billed by the school to replace new or missing ones.

Smith, Rodriguez and Mann all have their sticks out and soon, they're all over the small patch of lawn. One of the guys he thinks are seconds goes up to join them while the other two stay put, just like him and Wexler.

If the bus is stuck on the highway, they could be here for another half hour. He sighs and closes his eyes again.

It’s a little chilly for spring in San Benito.

He's lighting his second cigarette and they're all trying to pass the time somehow when Smith chuckles and says: ‘Target practice.’ He hears a yelp and everyone laughing. He digs his elbows into the ground and sits up to look.

It's that weird kid, Paddle—no, Pendleton. He's rubbing his arm and his paperback – he’s always got one, the fucking dork – is down by his feet. An old pair of Converse. Suits him, that geek chic.

Pendleton gives them all a glare. ‘Watch it,’ he shouts.

Richard grins. It's not even close to being the right thing to say.

Pendleton bends down to get his book and doesn't see a few more balls flying at him.

Two miss, one hits his side and another hits his arm at almost the same spot as before. He yelps again and goes down.

Richard takes a drag and sniggers when he hears Wexler and Rodriguez discussing where to aim next.

‘Tierney. Tierney,’ someone hisses.

He stubs his cigarette out, pressing the butt hard into the ground to bury it under his palm.

‘They're almost...’ Tierney catches sight of Pendleton and the jig is immediately up. ‘What is going on here?’

‘Nothing, Mr. Tierney,’ Smith says, jostled by Rodriguez from the side. ‘Just cooling off, throwing passes, that kind of thing.’

Idiots.

Tierney turns around, glaring at each of them. ‘Why are the balls...Smith, Wexler, all of you with your sticks out,’ he snaps, ‘pick them up.’

Richard is the only one left on the grass and he shrugs when the coach looks down at him. ‘I should give all of you detention,’ the man says in a loud voice, as if Richard is the one who masterminded everything. ‘Haywood, go see if he's okay.’

Richard furrows his eyebrows like he doesn’t know shit. ‘But I didn't—’

‘Don't think I can't smell that cigarette,’ Tierney threatens him.

He smirks and stands up, brushing his hands on his dirty shorts. He has to go down a set of concrete steps to get to Pendleton the long way around: anything to waste more time.

‘You okay?’

Pendleton holds the book – Richard sees the new smudges on the cover – against his body using his left arm, gingerly lifting up his layered cotton shirts so they bunch up in thin folds: dark and stark against his reddening, pale skin.

‘What do you care?’ he says, looking up for a second.

‘I don't,’ Richard says, staring at the smooth waist. There’s barely any hair; just like his own. ‘I'm supposed to see if you're okay. So, you okay?’

Pendleton looks at him like he’s stupid. Uses a matching tone, too, when he says, ‘Do you think what you see tells you I'm okay?’

‘So you got hit by a couple of balls,’ Richard says, watching Pendleton – is it Justin? Or Austin, maybe – press his fingers into his side, as if he’s trying to feel all that pink and blood rising up.

‘Excellent powers of observation.’

Richard wants to laugh. What a bitch. ‘Should ice that,’ he says instead. Pendleton only stares up at him. ‘It’ll still bruise, but it won’t be as bad.’

Pendleton pulls down his shirts, puts his book in his left hand and walks away.

‘You’re welcome,’ Richard shouts after him.

He picks up the one ball he sees and rolls it from one hand to the other, pressing the hard rubber against his skin. He’s gonna google Rimbaud when he gets home.


End file.
